


Run (don't deny the animal)

by Twisted_Mind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Hook-Up, Knotting, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, POV Stiles, Possessive Peter, Rough Sex, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-14 18:23:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11213676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: He stares at the hickey the next morning, and doesn’t know what to think about the night before. He can’t blame this on booze, because he’d been 100% sober. It wasn’t an accident. But he didn’t mean to, either. He hadn’t gone to Jungle seeking Peter out, hadn’t been looking for anything at all, really.Once is an incident, twice is a coincidence. The thought of a third time, of making it a pattern, sets a dull sort of panic crawling through his veins.





	Run (don't deny the animal)

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY FRIDAY, EVERYONE! It feels so damn good to be posting this, holy shit. I've been working on clearing out my backlog of half-finished fic, so hopefully this is just the first in a avalanche. *crossed fingers that my health and brain _work with me_ to make it happen*
> 
> As usual, this was supposed to be a quick porny one-shot (seriously, it was inspired by Maroon5's Animals, that song is the Trash _Anthem_ ) that completely ran away from me because Stiles decided to be a little angst-muffin and make this grow a plot. 
> 
> Special thanks go to Aminias, Greenie, Kashizii, and SlasherFiend for enabling, and BelleAmante for the speedy beta job.

 

 

The first time it happens, Stiles plays it off as an accident.

Because he'd been drunk and horny at Jungle, desperate for greedy hands on his skin, to feel wanted, to feel _something_ besides fear-fuelled urgency. His defenses are down, and Peter's there, offering him exactly what he's looking for. In the haze of illicit booze and hormones, it seems like a bonus that it's someone he knows, someone who knows him, who'll understand why he needs this so badly.

He's still not prepared for how good it is, for the way Peter eats the moans straight out of his mouth while fingering him open. For how hot it is when Peter grips him under the thighs and holds him against the wall, sliding slick and easy inside his more-than-willing body. He didn't know he could come without a hand on his cock, but it's apparently possible when Peter's growling in his ear, encouraging his moans and whimpers while driving into him steadily, holding him up as he gets close and starts to shake apart.

He doesn't say anything after, when Peter half-carries him to bed and curls around his back, one hand over his still-racing heart. Peter doesn't speak either, not when he fetches Stiles's clothes or walks him out, when he presses a chaste kiss—the most unexpected thing all night—to Stiles's mouth before letting him slip out the door.

So, yeah. He plays that first time off as an accident. The only problem is that he's too self-aware to _not_ know it's a play. It's why he didn't tell Peter it was a mistake, or that it wouldn't happen again. He doesn't _want_ to want it to happen again, but he does.

Also? He's not stupid. And he might not have super-senses, but he's a cop's kid. He's observant, was taught how to be by the best. He's seen the way Peter's expression goes hungry when he shows up smelling like his own sweat and come, the way that gaze goes predatory when he smells of someone _else’s_.

The second time isn’t an accident. But it’s not intentional, either.

He goes back to Jungle. He’s horny sure, but not like he’d been the first time. He’s mostly just looking for a way to be normal for a while, escape the supernatural horror show in strobe lights and attractive people moving to the synthpop beat.

He’s dancing with his eyes closed, moving from partner to partner, sometimes on his own. So when Peter slots up against him, he doesn’t realize right away who it is. He clues in when he adds the possessive hand splayed over his stomach to the stubble scraping his skin as his current partner mouths at the back of his neck.

He leans into it, content to let Peter molest him on the dancefloor. It’s no worse than what the others are doing. And, even though he came here specifically to get away from all the things that go bump in the night, he feels better with Peter at his back than he has all week. He decides not to think about it too much.

He stops thinking entirely when Peter suggests they go outside, nodding eagerly. He thinks he should be embarrassed to be hooking up behind a club, but he’s not. He’s done so much worse.

For a reason he couldn’t voice if he tried, he stops Peter when the werewolf starts sliding to his knees. He gets an incredulous look. Instead of answering the unspoken question, he murmurs, “Let me?”

Peter searches his face, and nods. Lets Stiles push him against the brick wall and open his fly. Stiles groans when he realizes Peter’s going commando, and can’t hit his knees or get his mouth around that perfect dick fast enough.

But apparently it’s a little too fast for Peter, who cups the back of his head and slows him down before guiding him through the rest. Stiles hadn’t known that _giving_ a blowjob could be such a submissive act, but hearing Peter’s voice turn raspy while offering instruction and praise proves him wrong. He’s hard and leaking in his jeans by the time he’s swallowing down the evidence of a job well done.

He’s too needy to resist when Peter hauls him up and fists his cock, sucking a vicious hickey on his neck as he comes helplessly. He slumps against Peter after, trembling. Peter wraps an arm around him to hold him up, and drops a kiss on his cheek before letting him go. The throaty “good boy” sends shivers down his spine.

He stares at the hickey the next morning, and doesn’t know what to think about the night before. He can’t blame this on booze, because he’d been 100% sober. It wasn’t an accident. But he didn’t mean to, either. He hadn’t gone to Jungle seeking Peter out, hadn’t been looking for anything at all, really.

Once is an incident, twice is a coincidence. The thought of a third time, of making it a pattern, sets a dull sort of panic crawling through his veins. He’s pretty sure he shouldn’t, that he shouldn’t even _want_ to. Peter is more than a decade older and broken in ways that give Stiles sympathy pains and has done things that everyone agrees are capital-A Awful.

But he can’t deny that he feels at ease, settled in his skin around Peter in a way he doesn’t with anyone else. Peter, for all his creepiness and innuendo, has never pushed for more than Stiles is willing or able to give. And somehow managed to be exactly what he needed, both times.

He can’t make sense of this. It’s like he has pieces to several different puzzles, and there’s no way to fit them together or see a bigger picture. So he retreats. Plays a subtle game of keep-away while he tries to understand what happened, what Peter’s after, what he wants and needs and is allowed to _have_.

Peter makes it harder than it needs to be, by mostly respecting the distance Stiles tries to create except for all the subtle ways he _doesn’t_ , the casual touches when no one else is looking and the looks that make him remember things that send blood rushing to his cheeks. The worst part is, the only way to make it stop is to be obvious in his avoidance of Peter, and then, well. There would be questions. Questions he absolutely does not want to answer, especially ones from Peter himself.

He fakes sick and tries to sort it out. All he has to show for it is a lot of frustration, and a persistent semi.

He goes back to Jungle, lets some guy he doesn’t know jack him off in the bathroom. Peter’s not there, and Stiles showers when he gets home, but it doesn’t matter. Peter takes one look at him when they’re together next, and tuts. Stiles has no idea how he knows, but he definitely does.

The worst part is that he doesn’t stop wanting Peter, can’t stop comparing every new encounter with that first time in Peter’s apartment, the second time in the alley. None of them are as satisfying, as painfully good. None give him that clarity, the clean, hollow feeling he’s so desperate for.

He’s in the parking lot of Jungle, trying to convince himself to go inside and try again, that this time will be different, when Peter catches up with him.

“Why are you doing this to yourself?”

He glares. Or, well. He tries to. “I’m not doing anything, and it’s none of your business anyway.”

Peter gives him an unimpressed look. “You made it my business when you proved that I’m capable of fulfilling your heretofore unmet needs.”

“We remember that event very, very differently.”

Peter’s smirk doesn’t hide his frustration. “It’s so cute when you try to lie to me.”

“I’m not lying. If you listen, you’ll actually hear a very steady heartbeat.” Fast, yes. But steady.

Peter crowds him against the side of the Jeep. “Oh trust me, I hear it.” The sotto voce is a jarring contrast to Peter’s piercing stare. He leans closer, pressing them cheek-to-cheek. “I hear the way it pounds for me, like it’s calling my name.”

Stiles is hard. He wishes he weren’t, it would make his life a hundred times easier, but he is. He knows Peter can feel it where they’re pressed together.

“If you want me to chase you, I will, Stiles. Gladly. I’d follow the sound of your little rabbit-heart, hunt you down like prey. Pin you under me, make you take me just to feel you squirm.”

He moans, head tipping back and baring his throat to the predator that just promised to hunt him. That shouldn’t be hot, shouldn’t make his whole body light up with _yes please_. It does anyway. Peter mouths at his pulse, lips surprisingly gentle.

“But once I catch you, little rabbit, you’re mine. No more playing games, no more dancing out of reach. No more chasing random tail. Mine. Mine to hurt and hunt and tend to, mine to feed and mark and fuck.” Peter takes a careful step back, hands cradling Stiles’s jaw. “So you have a choice, little rabbit. You can come to me willingly and let me be sweet to you, or you can give chase.”

He swallows, dry throat clicking. “What if I don’t want you at all? If I just . . . want to go free? If this was all a mistake?”

Peter smirks again, one thumb moving to feather teasingly over his Adam’s apple. “You don’t, and this wasn’t. If you weren’t willing to be mine, you would never have put your throat between my teeth.” Peter steps away, and the lack of contact makes Stiles feel cold, dizzy. He wants it back. “I’m a patient man, little rabbit, but you should decide soon. Teasing wild animals isn’t wise.”

Peter walks away, and Stiles is left with a raging hard-on and a degree of clarity he wishes he was grateful for. He’s not, though, because he shouldn’t want what he wants. Shouldn’t be so ready to give in when, objectively, it’s a terrible decision that can only end catastrophically.

Against all reason and rationality and better judgement, he wants Peter. Maybe always has.

He takes a couple days to wrap his head around that fact, that this, what they’ve been doing, it’s not really an accident or a coincidence—that implies a level of randomness, of pure chance, that has never existed between them. Everything they’ve done up to this point has been deliberate, every step of this insane dance leading them here. Wherever the fuck “here” actually is. Stiles doesn’t know that, either.

_Except_ , he thinks, lying in bed and staring at nothing, _I do._ It’s nothing that would fit neatly into words, nothing that concepts like “comfort” or “friends with benefits” or “boyfriends” could cover. They’re both less than that, and more. There’s too much history between them, and too much of it violent or extreme, if not both, for a conventional term to apply.

It bothers him less than he thinks it should.

The real question, then, is what he’s going to do about it. He closes his eyes, thinks about the press of Peter’s body to his own, thinks about the first time they gave in to the magnetic pull and let their borders blur. He doesn’t think that’s what Peter meant by sweetness, but Stiles knows tenderness, knows the feel of care in fingertips pressed against his skin, into his body. It was there, that night, in Peter’s hands and lips, even if he hadn’t meant for it to be.

Stiles thinks he’d like to have that again. Maybe as often as Peter will let him have it, and he’s starting to get the idea that it would be less about permission and rationing than about how much pleasure Peter can force under his skin before his fragile human body can’t take any more.

But it’s the thought of what else Peter offered that’s making his pulse race and his dick start to fill.

He’s alone and the dark isn’t judging him, so he thinks about it. About his body tingling with adrenaline as he runs intoawayfrom Peter. He thinks Peter would be a little careful in bringing him down, would be strategic in that as in everything else. He thinks about the weight of that muscle-dense body on top of him, forcing him into the dirt, and snakes a hand into his pajama bottoms, stroking as he imagines teeth at the nape of his neck. He bites his lip on the moan he wants to let out—he’s not ashamed, but he doesn’t want to wake his dad, either—when he thinks about Peter kneeing his thighs apart, claws tearing at his clothes.

He’s so empty it aches, thinking about the push of Peter’s cock inside him, how he’d be able to do nothing but _take it_. He wants to get his lube but he’s so close he doesn’t want to stop, so he slides his other hand under his pajamas and down to push against—but not into—where Peter would force him open, slowly, so he’d feel every fraction of every inch. He thinks about how slow wouldn’t mean “gentle”, how Peter’s breath would turn laboured in his ear, how he’d feel dirty and used in the best of ways as Peter took what he wanted with Stiles unable to stop him, and he comes.

He feels lightheaded when he realizes that the answer to what he wants to do is all but spelled out in the come splashed across his stomach.

This is insane. There’s something deeply wrong with him. He wants Peter—and, more than that, he wants to tickle the guy’s predatory instincts. The phrase _playing with fire_ comes to mind, but really, this is more like Russian Roulette. Fires can be controlled. Peter can’t be, and only a fool would try.

Even knowing that, he still wants it. Knowing there’s no safety net, that he’s trusting a legitimate spree killer not to hurt him in ways he doesn’t want and won’t recover from, is somehow not enough of a deterrent. He officially needs help.

But first, he needs someone who won’t judge him.

 

***

 

Erica swans into the coffee shop in her signature red lipstick, leopard-print heels and matching sunglasses, blonde curls bouncing with the force of her “out of my way” attitude. She doesn’t bother ordering, just takes the seat across from him, props her sunglasses on the top of her head, and stares at him expectantly.

“This is not what I meant when I said low-profile, oh my god,” he mutters. He still slides her mochaccino across the table, because she showed up and he needs her, damnit.

She raises an eyebrow at him—he swears that was a perk of lycanthropy, they can all do it and it’s unfair—and then sips her drink. And continues staring at him. While saying nothing.

He starts to sweat a little, because she just doesn’t stop. He drums his fingers on the table, opens and closes his mouth several times, and finally squeaks out, “Y’know what? Never mind, it’s not a big—”

Her eyes narrow and she re-crosses her legs to prod one spiked heel against his thigh. He gulps loudly, and she tips her head to give him a saccharine smile. The one that tells him he has ten seconds to spill his guts _or else_.

He’s not a fan of or else. “It’s Peter,” he blurts.

She raises her eyebrows and takes a pointed slurp of her drink. It’s a non-verbal “and?” if he’s ever not-heard one.

“I want—things, and him, and—I just. I shouldn’t.”

“Why?”

He can’t help but stare. She asked like it’s a legitimate question. And it’s not. Not really. “It’s _Peter_.”

She shrugs. “That means a lot more to Derek, or Scott, or even Lydia than it does to me. He’s a bit of a pervy weirdo, but he’s also been useful.” He stares some more, and she huffs, putting her mochaccino down. “Stiles, you have more history with him than I do. Other people might not like it. But, really, it’s not their business. You’re allowed to want whatever and whoever you set your heart on. Wanting him isn’t a good or bad thing.”

He tries not to let himself hope. Erica still hasn’t heard the whole story. “I mean, okay. Even if I get on-board on this train, I . . . want to do more than just want. And so does he.”

Her eyes track over his face, and he knows that she’s getting it now. “This is really eating at you.” It’s half-statement, half-question. He flails a little, gesturing at him, and them, and the coffee shop. She leans forward, bracing her arms on the little table. “I don’t know what’s going on here, and I get the feeling getting a play-by-play from you won’t actually help me figure it out. So forget all that. What’s stopping you?”

He suffers a temporary mental blue screen. “Objectively, this is a terrible idea that will end horribly.”

Erica rolls her eyes. “You can’t tell the future, so that’s not a valid reason. Next?”

Okay, so it maybe sounds slightly ridiculous when put that way. Especially since she doesn’t know Peter the way the rest of them do. “He’s nearly twice my age.”

Erica’s mouth curls into a hungry grin. “No, he isn’t, and I have two words for you, Batman: experience points.” He facepalms to hide the heat flooding his face, and she laughs at him. “You walked right into that.”

He did. He absolutely did. But he is not touching that with someone else’s lacrosse stick. So, next point. “Peter is a mess. He’s done things that are verifiably evil.”

“One, so have you. So has Derek, and even Scott.” She pauses to sip her drink again, which he suspects is just so he won’t see her smiling at the way his jaw is about to hit the table, before going on. “Two, and more importantly, has he done anything evil to you directly? Stop being blindly loyal for a second and really think about it.”

He’d really rather not. Thinking about Peter’s treatment of him is what got him in this mess in the first place. “What would I even call him? This thing, this whatever-it-is, is messy and fucked and doesn’t look like any recognizable relationship.”

“Does it need to?”

“Why are you defending this? Defending him? How can you not see how awful this is?” he yells.

Erica glares at everyone who turned to stare until the other patrons are deliberately ignoring them. “I’m not defending him. I just want to figure out why you’re fighting this so hard. Everything you’ve told me has been some variation of why other people will think you shouldn’t. I haven’t heard anything about why _you_ don’t want to, or why _you_ think you shouldn’t.”

He drops his head onto the table with a dull thud. “I hate you.”

“Mhm, that’s why you know what my favourite drink is and had it ready for me when I got here.”

“Bribery.”

“You keep telling yourself that.”

He sifts through what’s left while Erica finishes her mochaccino. “Peter’s dangerous. What I want with him is dangerous. Not like, emotionally, _physically_. He’s a predator and I wanna poke that part of him with a stick.” He looks at her, desperate for her to understand. “He’s a killer, and if I do this, I’m trusting him not to seriously hurt me, with absolutely zero guarantees he won’t, and no real way to stop him if he decides to gut me like a fish. That is stupidly dangerous.”

Erica rolls her bottom lip into her mouth huffs out a breath, her expression painfully soft. “So are our lives, Stiles. You run with wolves, and there’s a very real chance that will be the death of you sooner rather than later.” She leans in until their foreheads are nearly touching. “Everything has risks. You want a guarantee, buy a dishwasher. You want to be happy, you have to take chances.”

“Okay,” he breathes. She pecks him on the nose and he’s so out-of-it from the bizarre place their conversation went that he doesn’t realize until hours later that she left lipstick on his face. Probably on purpose, because Erica is devious like that.

He goes over their conversation that night while lying in bed. She’s right. And, now that he knows it, he can’t _unknow_ it. Part of him wants to, but mostly he’s kind of relieved. The not-quite permission, coupled with her insistence that he doesn’t need it, is powerful. But it’s the idea that this, what he’s on the brink of doing with Peter, won’t require forgiveness is what’s scaring him.

Mostly because he doesn’t just want, now. He’s gonna go for it. Tomorrow, so he doesn’t talk himself out of it or let anyone else make him think he needs permission they’re never gonna give.

He keeps to himself the next day. Partly, it’s because he doesn’t wanna deal with the pack, and what they may or may not know, courtesy of Erica’s big, lipsticked mouth. Mostly it’s because he wears a plug all afternoon to get ready for what he has planned, and he doesn’t feel like being teased about the arousal he’s marinating in. He waits until he knows Peter’s left, probably to look for him, before sneaking into the apartment. He pulls the note out of his pocket— _Catch me if you can!_ —before shimmying his basketball shorts down to work the plug free. He leaves both on Peter’s kitchen table and hightails it out of there.

He drives to the Preserve as fast as he dares, breathless and giggling. He’s as turned-on as he is excited as he is scared. When he gets to the Preserve, he stumbles as he tries to put distance between him and the Jeep. He knows Peter will find him, that it’s a matter of “when” and not “if”, but he doesn’t want it to be too easy, doesn’t want to give up the anticipation making him hypersensitive just yet.

He hears a howl, and the victory in it stops him in his tracks. Peter’s here, heading towards him. His heart beats wildly as he sprints, wanting to draw it out. His fear ticks up, too, because he doesn’t know how, exactly, this is gonna go, what Peter will do to him, if Peter is pleased or annoyed or neither or both. Stiles didn’t exactly get his thoughts on this beforehand.

He shrieks when he hears, “I’m coming for you, little rabbit,” _much_ too close for comfort. He tries to run faster, heads in the opposite direction from where he thinks Peter is. So, naturally, he barrels directly into the predator he’s taunted. Peter wraps arms around him, one hand cradling his fragile human skull and takes them to the forest floor, rolling to take the brunt of their fall. They keep rolling, and Stiles is holding on for dear life, trusting Peter not to let them land somewhere inadvisable for what he hopes comes next.

He’s not surprised that he winds up under Peter. He _is_ a little shocked that the first thing Peter does is murmur, “Caught you, little rabbit,” in his ear before fitting inhuman teeth around his throat. The whimper he gives is needy, placating.

Peter pulls away slowly, eyes glowing as he shifts his weight to pin Stiles completely. He doesn’t fight it. He’s not interested in what a pissed-off, predatory Peter might decide to do to him. “I’m going to eat you up, little rabbit,” Peter growls, and then he’s shredding Stiles’s shorts and sucking him down.

This is not what he expected. He tries to thrash, to buck his hips, but he can’t. Peter’s weight is holding him firmly to the earth, and all he can do is beg as Peter deepthroats him and then stays there, unmoving.

It’s torture, being engulfed in tight heat without movement. He’s crying before Peter moves, and even then, it’s to bob slowly. He loses track of time as it goes on, every movement achingly slow. He’s trembling, every muscle tensed and straining against Peter’s hold as his orgasm builds. Just as he’s about to tip over into what is possibly the most intense climax of his life, Peter stops, gripping the base of his cock and squeezing.

“No, Peter _please_!”

Peter teases his delicate stomach with deadly-sharp fangs. “You’re mine little rabbit, and that means all of you. If and when you come is up to me, and you made me chase you all this way. Do you think you deserve to come already?”

He doesn’t know what the right answer is here, doesn’t know what Peter wants to hear, can’t think past the need burning in his bloodstream. “ _Please_ ,” he begs.

“I hope you stretched yourself thoroughly.” And before he can reply to that—he did, because he anticipated Peter fucking him hard and fast in the dirt—hands are turning him over, tugging his hips up until he’s on his hands and knees, and a drop of pre-come hits the ground beneath him. He hangs his head when he feels Peter’s thumbs pull him apart, his face heating at the pleased sound Peter makes.

And then words are completely beyond him as Peter pushes inside. It isn’t slow, isn’t considerate. He’s not given any time to adjust. Peter slides his cock home in one smooth push before drawing back and setting a quick, steady rhythm. He can do nothing but choke on his moans as Peter uses him.

Because, however restrained Peter might seem, he _is_ being used right now. And he’s arching into every thrust, whining for harder, faster, more. He can’t feel anything but bliss, and he hasn’t even come yet.

So he whines when Peter stops, pulling back a little to tuck a finger in alongside his cock. “Wuh—Peter, what . . .?”

He’s not expecting the way Peter’s words are more growl than speech. “Gonna knot you.”

And, oh god, they never talked about this, he didn’t even know knotting was a thing, but his dick is twitching and he can only groan, “Fuck, yeah. Want it.”

Because he absolutely does.

Peter rumbles, pleased. “Such a good little rabbit, hungry for my knot.”

He doesn’t mean to, but he whines, pushing his hips back, wanting what Peter’s offering. “C’mon wolf, give it to me.”

And then Peter’s hot against his back, hips rolling as he pushes deep, teeth worrying at the back of Stiles’s neck as the knot starts to swell. Stiles begins to shake, pushing into every touch as his heart pounds. Peter’s hands slide up his ribs to cup his shoulders, holding him in place as the knot finishes expanding, and he can’t help his little choked-off cry as it does.

He’s trembling so badly he doesn’t think he can hold them both up anymore, and resigns himself to being face-down in the dirt when Peter moves them, pulling him back astride thick thighs and supporting his weight with an arm around his waist. His head lolls backward, resting against Peter’s shoulder as a hand grips his cock. He’s exposed and surrounded by Peter at the same time, stuffed fuller than he’s ever been, the knot is a perfect, unrelenting pressure, and now Peter’s stroking him. It’s too much. His whole nervous system is sparking with fireworks, and he doesn’t know how to cope with the overload.

“That’s it, little rabbit, just take it,” Peter croons. He arches a little at the triumph in the sound. “Let me give you what no one else can.”

He barely registers his breathy, “Yes,” beyond Peter rocking him gently and the way it makes the knot roll against his prostate. A high-pitched sound, like a hurt animal, punches out of him as he comes.

He’s ragdoll limp after, and Peter eases them to their sides, cradling his spent body. He pants, eyes mostly shut, as he relishes the relaxation, the soothing motions of Peter’s hands, the clean, hollow feeling he can only seem to find in these moments and with this man.

“Did you mean it?” he rasps.

“Mean what, sweetheart?”

He’s glad of the knot still tying them together, because it means he doesn’t have to meet Peter’s eyes. “When you said that if you caught me, I’d be yours.”

He can feel Peter’s lips curve in a smile against the back of his neck, and the arms around him tighten their grip. “Oh, I meant it—you’re mine now, Stiles. My little rabbit.”

He’d expected as much, but hearing it makes warmth bloom in his chest. “Then I guess that makes you my wolf.”

Peter purrs in agreement, and Stiles regrets nothing.

 


End file.
